SupermanBatman: Long Nights
by Machine Man
Summary: The Caped Crusader is incapacitated, paralyzed by a mysterious toxin that threatens to kill him slowly. His only true friend, Superman, with the help of Nightwing and Robin, must find an antidote, and carry on Batman's presence on the streets.
1. Chapter 1

I wake up stiff. I can smell Lois's hair; the doorman is smoking; somewhere below the street, a small gas leak has occurred, whistling, but no emergency. For the first time since I tasted this yellow sun, I am tired. Exhausted. Divided. I haven't been sleeping. I'm sure Bruce knows the feeling. I'm sure he would laugh at me: stiff joints and weak knees? The Man of Steel a bit rusty? The tin man need his oil can? The thought makes me smile. Smiling hurts.

Bruce may not pull out of it.

***

Two days ago, I got a call from Alfred. Before he could put the phone down, I was a mile outside Gotham. Bruce _never _calls. That's not to say we don't talk; it's just always, _always_ on Bruce's terms. Translation: dark, startling, a hint paranoid, and after all these years, surprisingly pleasant. Suffice to say, Alfred's voice shook me awake.

"Mr. Kent--Kal--..."

"I'll be right there."

I walked into the mansion and Alfred was still holding the receiver. He was pale as the fog on the cliffs.

"Where is he, Alfred?" Alfred let the phone drop to the floor, composed himself with a tug on his jacket, straightened his tie, and hid a single tear that stranded itself in the purple circle below his eye.

"Right this way, Mr. Kent."

The cave was damp and dark; it is a child's nightmare come to life. To him, it is home. Above is his father's house, but down here is where he truly lives. I forget that with Bruce, what's on the surface is never really him; Bruce is the real mask: he is only and forever Batman. In the bottom of the cave, down innumerable steps, Bruce lay on a gurney. Dick and Tim, Robin and Robin, stood on either side of Bruce. They flirted with restraining him, but both were visibly scared of what might happen.

I have seen terrible things. I try not to remember them, but they're always there. Somewhere in my memories, a sun explodes. A planet dies. A single child floats a course through deepest space. My father dies. Both of them. Friends and lovers, enemies and allies lay at my feet. And somewhere in these memories, I too, die. Before the final blow, I am weak, limp, lifeless. Another blow teaches me what fracture means. He is monstrous. I fall to the ground. I hear the voices of those who love me dearly; they pray to me, scream at me. Get up. I cannot. I abandon them to the most destructive force in the universe. I sleep, and the sleep is easy. Crawling back, like a toddler, like everything beyond is tugging at my legs, willing me to stay, that's the hardest part. I am blind and warm. I am slow but strong. I am beneath the Earth, the mother who is not yet finished with me. I breathe and it burns. I wipe the soil from my face. I am the impossible. I am terrible. I have looked death in the face, stood in the face of Doomsday, and crawled my way from the dirt.

But I have never seen anything more frightening than Bruce on that smooth metal gurney.

His face was contorted into a smile, but there was no happiness there. He shrieked, lashed out, drew blood from Tim's cheek. Tim held his face where blood leaked past his fingers. Dick held Bruce down, pressed a needle to his throat. Something terrible moaned, gurgled, and slept. Dick threw the needle to the ground and slammed his fist into the gurney. For all his bravado, I had never seen him more scared. All were silent in the cave. Two orphans were losing their patron saint; a host of bats, their king. The two raised their heads when I spoke.

"What. Happened."

***

Lois wakes up behind me and runs her fingers down my back. It gives me goosebumps. It is the first time in days that I allow myself to relax.

"Which suit are you wearing today, Mr. Kent?" She reaches her arms around me and runs her fingers over the craters on my chest. "Clark, what the hell are these?"

"I took a bit of gunfire last night." She is not satisfied.

"A bit of gunfire has never left scars before." She continues to prod at the scars. "You need rest." The automatic shades open to our bedroom. Metropolis is golden this morning. The sun soaks my skin, and for once in the past week, my body doesn't betray me. The red burns close as she runs her hand over them a last time.

"I'm fine, Lois." She walks to the window in her nightgown and points downward.

"No, Clark. The people down there, on the street? They're fine. The people out there at work, all over Metropolis? They're fine. The Daily Planet? It's frickin' super! But you? You're staying home."

I've learned better than to argue with this woman. I roll back into bed. She makes coffee and walks into the bathroom door, leaving it cracked. She lets her nightgown fall to the floor and steps into the shower. It's nice that she doesn't make me use the x-ray vision.

When the shower door closes I am three blocks away with the wind cracking like thunder in my ears. Before her hair is wet, I'm soaked in the bay, the spray shooting off of my feet and up my back. Before she can rinse the conditioner from her hair, I am tasting clouds. And while she is drying off, I am letting the bay water evaporate off of me in the heat of the sun that is so close I could kiss it.

And by the time she walks out of the bathroom in a towel, I am asleep in bed. She lets her hair fall out of her hands.

"Why does it smell like the bay-walk in here?" I smile and fall asleep...that is, until she leaves.

***

The day has been slow in Metropolis. From above the city, everything is quiet and undisturbed. I make my way far above the streets and rooftops, avoiding one rooftop, one building in particular; Lois wouldn't want me out of bed today. I avoid The Planet entirely. She's actually gotten quite good at noticing the blur of primary colors; the shock of wind that follows the sonic boom. I won't rattle her window today, but knowing her, I won't have to. She's on her way home to check on me. Even now, even here, I would never mistake those stilettos on the sidewalk, southbound on fifth street.

If I'm caught, I'm caught. The sun feels too good today to let go of. And besides, who would be there to catch Frank for the fifth consecutive day?

"This game's getting a bit sick."

"Shut up, Super-ass."

"I love you too, Frank." Frank's a jumper. For the past week he's been bound and determined to kill himself in some gore spectacle off the tallest buildings in Metropolis. He mixes it up, making it fun for me; today he actually made it to the twenty-fifth floor before I felt the change in the air. Frank keeps me busy on an otherwise boring day.

"You gonna take me to the cops?"

"Nope."

"The Planet?"

"Not a chance."

"Got a quarter for coffee?"

"Where would I hide a quarter?" He looks me up and down in disbelief.

"I'm going to do it again," he says.

"And I'll be there to makes sure no one sees you." _Frank_, I think, _if you're going to do it, you'll have to do it where no one can see you_. "Why couldn't Lex Luthor ever jump off a building?" I mumble a bit too loudly.

"Because your sorry ass would catch him too!" I chuckle. "What's funny?" he asks.

"Nothing Frank. Go home."

***

It's going to sound sick, but the way things have been going, people like Frank are a welcome distraction. I've been splitting my days and nights between Metropolis and Gotham. At night I tell Lois I'm gone on League business, but she knows I'm in Gotham. After all, she's the greatest reporter that ever lived.

"You smell like Gotham," she says when she kisses me the next morning. "Out all night again?" And there's that. Gotham has a distinct odor, a dinginess, but I'd never tell Bruce that. It's just as well; he's told me numerous times that he hates how bright Metropolis is, even in the middle of the night.

"Almost."

"League business?"

"Yep."

"That's funny, because I heard that Hal hasn't been Earth-side in months, Jon is still on Mars, and Bruce hasn't visited The Planet in weeks."

"I..."

"If you don't want to tell me Clark, don't. But don't lie to me either." She kisses me on the cheek. "Give Bruce a kiss for me."

I wish I could tell her about Bruce, but I'm still not used to seeing him in the condition he's in, and I'm not sure the reporter in her could resist breaking the story of her boss-gone-awol. I won't be able to hide it much longer. That's what I spent all night discussing with Dick and Tim.

"Dick, I don't think you realize the implications of this."

"Please, _Robin_, enlighten me." The two of them were at each other's throats from the moment I got there. Dick's been working overtime keeping the streets clean; Tim's been looking for an antidote for whatever it is that happened to Bruce. I was looking for an opportunity to interrupt them. It presented itself when Dick held Tim over a ledge in the cave.

"You know I can't let you drop him." Dick looked startled. I didn't give him time to notice my approach, in case he was actually considering dropping the third Robin into the abyss. "I hear that Robins are in short supply this time of year."

"How did _you_ get in here?" Dick asked. He put Tim down, not gently, but also not on the bottom of the cave.

"Bruce has his tricks; I've got mine." Dick was surprised that I entered the cave undetected. This would have never happened on Bruce's watch, but Dick is not Bruce, and my presence in the cave--Batman's sanctuary--only reminded him of that. We stood there for a moment, Dick with his back to both Tim and me. The Robin skirmish had kept my attention away from Bruce who was resting in a cryogenic chamber, but did not look in peace. I ran my hand down the steel door of the chamber. For all the disagreements, for all the backstabbing and jibing, Bruce is the only friend that I've ever had who was truly honest with me. Either everyone else on the planet was a liar, or was terrified of me.

Or Bruce had balls of steel.

"The chamber acts like Mr. Freeze's suit. It helps to slow the effects of the toxin on his body," said Tim. Though he looked better in the chamber, a slight, purple smile was beginning to creep up the corner's of Bruce's mouth; his eyes, wide, looked terrified. "I haven't been able to isolate the toxin, so developing the antidote is going to be difficult."

"I hate to be the only realistic one," said Dick, "but we have a larger problem on our hands." Dick pointed to the many monitors that illuminated the cave. Bruce's information network, the crown jewel of his paranoia, flickered in the darkness, showing images of people and places in Gotham that even _I_ can't see. A common theme moved throughout the blue screens: people moved freely, did as they pleased; not one looked over his shoulder. People walked down alleyways, down train stations, in and out of warehouses, through shadows, without a second thought. In any city other than Gotham this would've been a good thing, but the people Bruce takes notice of are the same people that he wants noticing him, or at least thinking they do. If Bruce had his way, he'd be in the farthest corner of _everyone's_ eye at all times, infecting them with the same sort of paranoia that drives him to greatness.

"Somebody has to be out there," said Dick.

"You two are working overtime."

"It's not enough, Clark."

"Whoa, your name is _Clark?_" said Tim.

"It has to be him," said Dick, pointing at the cowl and cape. Dick's words ring in the cave. Even the bats are quiet.

***

Dick and I spent the first half of the night running some quick sweeps over Gotham; him from the rooftops, me about a mile up. I didn't measure it out or anything, but I can always tell the mile mark when my nose frosts over. People think being the Man of Steel is a walk in the park, but a cold nose can be serious business. It's not that I can't _feel _cold, it just doesn't matter. That's why I hate getting shot in the eye: it doesn't do a damn bit of damage, but for a minute there, it kinda smarts.

Gotham was relatively quiet early on, so I stopped in to check on Tim's progress. He was asleep in front of the screens, his mask half off in a puddle of drool. Without the mask he looked like a kid, and I wonder what Bruce is thinking getting Tim involved in this business so young; but I guess people like Bruce and I never had a choice. And anyway, Tim found Bruce and asked to be Robin, not the other way around.

Until recently, I didn't belong in this group. Bruce had his future and security ripped from him as a child, then relived that moment through Dick's eyes as his parents, too, toppled to the ground. Tim's pain is more recent, but just as scarring. I was an orphan of a planet I'd never seen, but my father and mother were as devoted to me as any adopted parent could be. In truth, it's hard to this day to call Jar-El my father. He is in every way my savior, but my father, Jonathan Kent, died on the same planet that will never let me do the same.

After my father's death, either out of grief or anguish, I flew my father's body to the fortress. I wanted him to see everything that I had seen. I wanted him to meet my other father, and for a time I wanted him to remain there forever. But there was something out of place about memorializing him in all the splendor of the fortress. My father loved dark, Kansas soil more than anything, and to give him anything less than the simplicity of a home-burial would have been a disservice.

When I got back from the fortress, my desk was covered in flowers and cards of sympathy. The only envelope that caught my attention (though I'd never tell Lois this) was an envelope from Bruce Wayne. The card on the inside (and he knew I'd scan it) had only a time and an arrow pointing up.

I met Bruce on the top of the Daily Planet at 12:45. He didn't say anything, which wasn't surprising, but then he handed me a pocket-watch that didn't work. He nodded once, and then disappeared over the building. I scanned diagonally through the lower floors but he was gone. When I turned the watch over, it read: "My beloved Thomas: Love, Martha." My tears fell onto the face of the watch. It is in the fortress to this day.

I carried Tim up the stairs and handed him to Alfred who hasn't slept since Bruce went into the coma. I walked back down to the cave and looked at the screens. I must have been exhausted, because when Dick asked what I was looking at, I was actually startled.

"I can't hope to make sense of any of this," I told him.

"Tim's got his work cut out for him. It's more serious than anything I've ever seen." Dick isn't half the detective that Bruce is, and even Bruce has said that Tim is the heir-apparent of the "world's greatest detective" mantle, so the two of us can't make much of the data on the screen. But Dick says what we are both thinking; it doesn't take a detective to figure out who's partially responsible for Bruce's condition. The smile crawling up his face speaks for itself.

"Joker."

***

It didn't take long to find the maniac. He'd just made balloon animals for a nursing-home birthday party and then attempted to choke one of the residents with an inflatable dachshund. Then he lit the place on fire. When I picked him up he had his pants around his ankles and swore he was trying to put the fire out with his hose. As I ran to grab him he fired a few rounds into my chest. They actually stung. I hadn't slept in two days, and had mostly been working nights. Suffice to say: I needed some Vitamin D. He was in rare form, and all too happy to see me in his city.

"Where's bats? Sleeping upside down in a cave? Or has the brain of steel just decided to get a little down and dirty in my fair city?" I shook him enough to loosen a few bolts. "Heh! No need to get violent there, boy scout, though I do like it when you're rough with me."

"What did you do to him."

"Me? My, my. Look who's playing detective! That's awfully presumptuous for an amateur private eye. Have you scanned me yet? Be honest now: I'm hung like a horse! Heh!" I shook him some more, this time for fun. "Okay, okay. You're hung too! That suit really leaves little to the imagination."

"I don't have time for this."

"Oh you hero types rarely do. But where's the fun if there's no anticipation? What's a climax without a little foreplay?"

I started to burn a hole in his forehead. Not a deep one, but enough to make a bubble.

"You do know how to get me hot, super-freak! Not too fast now, I wouldn't want to prematurely...oops! Too late!" He sprayed a red gas into my face from the flower on his lapel. Distracted, I let him go. "I'm so sorry Superman! God, I feel like I'm in high school again."

He ran halfway down the alley before I'd burned that junk out of my eyes. I picked him up by the hair and flew him high above the Gotham skyline.

"Do it, boy scout. Have the balls that _he _never had. Him and his golden rule. Sure, he's beaten the shit out of me, but he's nothing more than a sadist. That's what separates him and me: I'm a goddamned artist."

I dropped him.

About halfway down he realized that I wasn't about to catch him. He screamed something about my mother, something about contraceptives, and then screamed "Scarecrow."

When his nose touched the river, I caught him by his pants, lit them on fire, and then dunk him in the sludge.

***

When I got back to the mansion, I looked over the bullet marks. There was no way Lois wouldn't notice. There were six bright red craters on my skin. It looked like nothing more than acne, but Lois would never buy that my middle-aged Kryptonian skin had just broken out over night. Most people think that being the Man of Steel comes with no scars. This is mostly true, but I've found over the years that the less time I spend in the sun, the uglier it can get; kryptonite is a whole other deal entirely.

I walked downstairs to the cave and saw Dick staring at Bruce. As much as he'll never admit it, Dick was really shaken up by all of this. The only father he'd ever really known for most of his life was now cryogenically frozen and slowly dying. I put my hand on his shoulder, and he quickly pulled away, wiping a tear. I pretended not to notice.

Dick asked me if I had any luck with the Joker. I repeated what the Joker had said before pissing himself. He told me to wipe my face off. I still had some of Joker's gunk on me.

"What's Scarecrow got to do with any of this?" said Dick.

"I don't know, but he won't be nearly as easy to find as Joker. Joker has a way of making himself known."

"So does Scarecrow," said Dick. Tim walked downstairs with his mask off eating a ham sandwich.

"What's the plan?" he asked with his mouthful. Dick shot him a condescending look. "Hey, just cause you guys don't sleep or eat, doesn't mean _I _can't have..."

"The plan is," Dick interrupted, "to find Scarecrow."

"How are we going to do that?" asked Tim.

"You're just in time to find out," said Dick. Dick looked worried, as if he was conflicted about what he was about to say. He looked back at the chamber and at Bruce, then looked at the ground. He removed his mask. "Here's the plan."

***

The Scarecrow, alias Dr. Jonathan Crane, is many things. He is a brilliant psycho-therapist, pharmacologist, chemist, and sociopath. He is also, as Dick believes, partially responsible for whatever is crippling Bruce. His counterpart in this unlikely duo, The Joker, is probably toweling himself off in Arkham Asylum at this moment. The Scarecrow is many things, but one thing he is not is a team player. That's the funny thing about sociopaths: they all think they're superior to one another.

So when I found the Scarecrow in the middle of Robinson Park, poisoning people with his fear toxin, I figured he would not be pleased with someone else taking the credit for his own work.

The Scarecrow and I fought, but it didn't last long: the fear toxin has little effect on me. I with I could say the same for the people who were around me; in every direction, all over the park, people were collapsing, paralyzed by their own fear and dementia. This was not part of the plan.

I made quick work of the Scarecrow and began dragging him off to Arkham, when a question was bellowed behind me.

"And what is the Man of Steel afraid of?" When I turned around, I saw the Scarecrow standing behind a row of trees, his long, skeletal limbs blending in with the branches, his eyes aflame in the darkness. I looked down at the man I was holding in my right hand. Scarecrow noticed. "I'm afraid you've caught an impostor," he said. He made his way beyond the trees, revealing the full length of his emaciated body. "But my question was not rhetorical. What _is_ the Man of Steel afraid of?"

I swooped in to grab him, but when I was within feet of him I fell into the dirt, skidding to halt at his feet. Looking up and in agony, I saw a small green glow coming from his scythe.

"Did no one tell you? No one in Arkham can keep their mouths shut about our new visitor. It's just abuzz with all the talk of a dead bat and his pet super-dog. I hate to say it, but we've all been waiting for a chance to see you for ourselves."

He grabbed me by the hair and pulled me from the ground. He pressed the scythe against my face, and I could feel my veins bubble with the green toxin, feel it work it's way through my head like a locomotive, faster than a speeding bullet. I could've laughed at the irony, if I didn't feel like I was being burned alive from the inside out.

"This is a much better trophy than a flying rat," he said. "After all, he's just man, a freak like the rest of us. But you, you're like...well, let me ask you another question: can god bleed?"

He pressed the scythe hard against my throat, and I began to cough and gag. This was not a part of the plan. I could taste blood in my mouth, a sensation that I'm not used to. But before he could push the blade through the back of my neck, the other Scarecrow kicked him from the side, knocking him to the ground.

"You fool. You would dare presume to..." said Scarecrow to the impostor. The impostor removed his mask to reveal the mask of Nightwing. "It's _you_!" said Scarecrow. I stood to my feet as Dick kicked the kryptonite away from me.

"Gassing those people was _not _a part of the plan," I said to Dick.

"It worked, didn't it?"

"Taking advantage of his arrogance was the plan, not gassing innocent people."

"Tim is already administering the antidote."

"I'm still not okay with it."

"The point is, it worked. He fell for it completely."

"That he did. Completely gullible."

"What do you expect from a lunatic?"

The Scarecrow looked up from the ground where Dick had kicked him.

"I'm still here," he said.


	2. Chapter 2

**Author's Note: **Thanks to everyone who's read the story and commented on it. I'm really enjoying giving Superman a voice overhaul. I think actually getting inside his head would be interesting and surprising. Sure, he's the prototypical hero and super-patriot, but what does he _really_ think about the things that he does? My theory: if he was raised by human parents, he's got to have some real human emotions. I'm not particularly trying to tarnish the man of steel, just polish away some of the saccharine residue that remains after sixty years of hero worship.

I'll admit it; I hated the guy growing up. I'm a Batman fanatic, but I think Superman has got some really interesting possibilities that never get explored. That's what I'm attempting in this story...and what better way to dirty up Superman than by plopping him right in the middle of the most corrupt city in the world: Gotham.

Again, thank you for reading. Please feel free to leave comments after the story. I very much enjoy constructive criticism and encouragement, and occasionally a "WTF is this?" comment. They all end up being helpful for the most part.

Enjoy.

Chapter 2:

I arrive home late. Dick had me up late interrogating Crane. We took him to this place by the docks, a place that Bruce, rather Wayne Corp., keeps condemned every year as a kind of "cave away from cave." Crane didn't talk, at first anyway. But after Dick gave him his own toxin, and I set things on fire with my eyes, he cracked...well, more.

He told us that the Joker had come to him with a proposition a few weeks ago, but that he'd never gotten to the proposition. Instead he shot Crane in the leg, drew a picture of a penis on his forehead, and made away with a few gallons of Crane's fear toxin.

"That's why I showed up in the park," he had said. "I thought that maniac was masquerading as me. That guy's certifiable."

Dinner is still on the stove, but Lois is in bed. Cold spaghetti tastes delicious after two nights of eating nothing but the Joker's gas, kryptonite, and my own blood. I try to quietly slide into bed, but it always creaks on my side. Lois wakes up.

"You smell like Gotham again."

"Sorry."

"I mean really Clark, I've seen you run across water. You can't get into bed without waking me up?"

"Kryptonian cells are heavier than those of homo sapiens."

"Then you're going on a Kryptonian diet, whatever the hell that would be." I try to kiss her goodnight, but she reminds me to brush my teeth. I have spaghetti breath.

I get back into bed and it creaks again under the strain. We've gone through too many beds in the short time we've been married. It seems like once a month I take another set of box-springs downstairs and to the garbage. It's a little awkward having to walk past the doorman with another set of worn out springs; he always holds the door, smiles, and gives me this nod like: way to go champ.

I wish that was the reason the springs were wearing out. In truth, I haven't seen Lois the past couple of days, and now I'm only going to get to sleep next to her for just under an hour. She's got a layout meeting at the planet early this morning, and Perry doesn't like late reporters, Pulitzer winning or otherwise.

I wake up stiff. Lois notices my bullet wounds (scratches really, but when you're used to seeing your husband cripple a freight train without a scratch, it can be a bit disconcerting. She quarantines me in the apartment, I don't listen, save Frank, and manage to make it to The Planet before 9:30).

An hour after I was supposed to be there.

"Tell Kent to get his happy ass in here!" Perry is...unhappy. In between breaths, I notice a small vein on the side of his head that swells abnormally large. I can hear his heart rate increase. He's got high cholesterol. I suggest to him that he see a doctor right away, fumble my glasses for effect, and wipe a bit of his spittle off the lenses. Perry gives me the assignment of covering a kindergarten that's planting an urban garden for Earth Day.

When I get to the school it is recess. I notice a smaller kid on the soccer field getting pelted by a soccer ball. A group of older kids has formed a circle around him, and every time he tries to run away they push him back into the middle of the circle.

The kid is yelling stop it over and over again. I wait for one last, strong yell, and as soon as he says "stop" I blow all of the kids over and pop the soccer ball with heat vision. The kids on the ground sit up and look at the small guy, who's chest is puffed out like a superhero. The small guy makes a face as if he knew he had it in him all along, a huge smirk stretches across his face, and he lets out a growl that makes all the bullies turn and run. He chases them all the way to the teacher, who listens in complete shock to the bullies claim that the little guy was picking on them.

The kindergarten class is small and run by a woman who looks like she's been out of college for a month. She flirts with me a bit too much, long enough for a few of the kids to eat glue behind her back. I fumble with my notepad and adjust my glasses periodically; it's honestly the hardest part of a secret identity: making people believe that I'm intimidated by them. Not that social situations don't scare me, but when you've stared Darkseid in the face and lived to tell about it, there are very few things, even devastatingly beautiful women, that intimidate you.

I spend the rest of the day watching a kindergarten class plant a tree, and argue over who gets to shovel the dirt, then who shoveled the most dirt, then who was the best at catching his/her own spit in his/her own mouth. One kid asked me if I had any gum. I said no, and that she probably wasn't allowed to have gum anyway. She kicked me in the shins and then ran away crying. I'm not cut out for parenthood.

Back at The Planet, Lois is in Perry's office. They both turn and look at me through the glass door, then continue talking. I set my things down and start up my computer. I begin to type: "Metro Kindergarteners Save the World," when Lois walks by and says "Lunch. Now."

Okay, so maybe I'm intimidated by beautiful women.

***

At lunch I order the Orange Chicken and she orders the steamed vegetables. I fumble with the chopsticks (which is not an act; I am actually _terrible_ with chopsticks) and Lois interrupts my first bite.

"Talk. Now."

"That wasn't a very investigative inquiry, Mrs. Kent."

"Ms. Lane on the job, thank you very much."

"Right. Sorry."

"You're still not talking."

"We're still not eating." I am so hungry it hurts.

"Okay, I'll eat, you talk."

I figure I can push this as far as it will go.

"What do you want to talk about?" I smile at her.

"Clark, you know damn well what I want to talk about." After years of marriage, it's good to know that I can still crack her calm, curious reporter facade.

"We haven't gotten anywhere."

"Who's 'we'?"

"Dick and I."

"Nightwing."

"Okay, Nightwing and I..."

"Where's Bruce?" Sometimes, this woman...

"I was getting there." Staring across the table at her, I realize exactly why it was that I fell in love with her in the first place. Even at times like this, when I'd swear _she_ was the one with heat vision, she's the most beautiful vision I've ever seen. "It's bad."

"How bad?"

"You don't want to know."

"Okay, Clark, my boss hasn't shown up to check on the Planet in two weeks. Not so much as a phone call, email, text, nothing. You can't tell me that his utility belt doesn't have a keyboard."

"Actually, I think his most recent has a mini-bar."

"Clark, be serious."

"Fine."

"And tell me what's going on." She's seen straight through me.

"We're working on an antidote."

"For what?"

"For what's killing Bruce." The rest of our lunch is silent.

***

I had planned on spending most of the day as close to the sun as possible, but between the kindergarteners, my inquisitor lunch-date, and Perry watching over me for the rest of the afternoon, I never really got a chance to slip into my work clothes. Er, my _other_ work clothes.

As the sun was setting over Metropolis, I flew towards Gotham. For some reason, the flight didn't take as long as usual. I felt faster today than other days, and I'll admit, I pushed a bit harder to go faster. It was strange, having spent so little time in the sun, and having little to no sleep, that I felt unstoppable. I hadn't felt this way in years. It felt good, but I stopped after realizing that I was leaving a trail of cracked trees and broken ground behind me. How fast was I _actually_ going? I wanted to see if I could go faster, but I let it go for the time being.

In the cave, Dick and Tim look exhausted. Tim is sitting at Bruce's console with Dick hovering behind him, scanning the screens for anything promising. Pictures of Bruce's DNA, juxtaposed against potential toxins, flash back and forth, but they find nothing. I land behind them and startle them. I would never be able to do this to Bruce.

"I would ask how you got in here, but what's the point?" says Dick.

"I saw him coming," says Tim with a smile on his face.

"Oh really, Robin? And how did you do that?"

"Security cameras."

"He flies faster than the cameras can even detect."

"Yes, but when all the trees and grass and fences and damn near everything lean in the same ninety degree angle on an otherwise windless night, it, well, begs a different explanation. That, and his suit is neon blue, which makes for a nice effect on the infrared..."

"Thank you, Tim," Dick says.

"No problem."

It's been a hard few days, so watching the two of them bicker actually makes me laugh. It's a welcome distraction.

"What's funny?" asks Dick.

"Nothing."

"You're awfully chipper, but I guess that Superman doesn't really get tired." He couldn't be farther from the truth. Until this evening, I'd never felt more tired in all my life. But now, for whatever reason, I felt invincible.

"I guess I had too much coffee." Dick lets out the closest thing to a laugh that he'll ever allow. He reminds me so much of Bruce. "I think it's safe to assume that the Joker has found some way to synthesize his laughing gas with Scarecrow's fear toxin." The two of them look at me like, well, like my father would say: like I fell of the truck six miles ago. "I take it you've deduced as much."

"Um, yeah," says Tim, trying to be nice. Dick ignores the comment entirely. "The problem is synthesizing an antidote that will treat both of the toxins, not just one or the other."

"Why not treat them separately?" Another stupid question. More condescending looks from the "boys wonder." Dick again declines to speak, and instead walks over and adjusts a valve on the chamber holding Bruce. Tim tries to explain it, though a bit too slowly for me to take his attempt at courtesy seriously.

"Okay, so it's kind of like this." He talks about the unique toxin that the Joker has mixed, and why it can't be treated as two individual toxins. He explains that the two toxins, though potent and powerful together, work rather slow when combined. "And should we manage to isolate one of the two," he says, "the other would act ultra malignantly towards Bruce's body. The good news is, the cryogenic chamber has all but halted Bruce's metabolism, and since the toxin needs to be circulated throughout his body, we've managed to stop it from spreading indefinitely."

"But we don't have an antidote," I add, sure this time that I don't sound stupid or misinformed. I gauge their reactions; I'm correct.

"But we don't have an antidote," echoes Tim. "Meaning Bruce is on ice for as long as it takes, with the hopes that the chamber doesn't do severe and permanent cell damage to his body and brain."

"We didn't have a choice!" Dick slams his fist against the chamber.

"Calm down Dick. No one's blaming anyone. We've all done what we had to do." I put my hand on his shoulder and he shrugs it off.

"We need to talk to that madman," he says. "We have to find an antidote."

***

We arrive at Arkham Asylum just before ten o'clock. Arkham is the scariest place that I've ever seen. There is perpetual laughter echoing through the hallways, but no one here is happy, or has had any reason to laugh for a long time. It is not like other hospitals, sterile and white with clean, sharp lines. It looks more like a giant headstone poking out of a hillside, like some sort of church for those beyond salvation. It has arms and eyes and a drafty breath that greets you at the front door. I don't believe in purgatory, but this place is as close as you'll get before you die.

And Bruce actually feels comfortable here. I know he hates Metropolis for how bright it is, but I hate Gotham, especially Arkham, for the opposite reason: even with x-ray vision, there are corners of this city, this madhouse, that even I can't see through.

Normally they wouldn't just let a bunch of "vigilantes" into the asylum; things have been strained between Batman and the current administration. But under the current circumstances--with the whispers and rumors of Batman's death echoing from every cell--there isn't a guard in Arkham that wouldn't let us in.

Fortunately, we didn't have to wait long at all; Aaron Cash let us in through some loading docks. He talked to us on the way to the Joker's cell.

"I've seen a lot of creepy shit happen in here, but it's never been this bad. It's like they can all feel some kinda shift on the outside. Like some sort of balance has been thrown off."

Judging by the look on Dick's face, he's trying to shrug Cash's comments off, but he can't entirely. I've been here before, but the feeling is different. It's as if the asylum is only holding the inmates in anticipation of one great, final escape. He has to be feeling this, too. And I can hear more than one inmate in this place talking about the dead bat.

Before we enter the Joker's cell-block, Cash asks me a final question. "Can you sign something for my kid. He thinks you're the greatest."

"What's wrong with Batman?" I ask.

"Well, no offense, but the Batman kinda scares him."

"I'm not surprised." I give Cash my cape.

"No, I couldn't. That's too much."

"I insist. Wish him my best." With that, Cash closes the door behind us as we enter the cell-block containing the most dangerous lunatic the world has ever known.

***

There are ass-prints on the glass of Joker's cell. He's been showing every guard and inmate that walks past his cell the burn marks from my heat vision. He's pulls his pants down again when we approach his cell.

"Look at this hot piece of ass! Admit it, boy hostage, you wanna hit this! Heh!"

"Why didn't you finish him off?" asks Dick. He knows why, but even though there's nothing redeemable about the Joker, that's one line that neither Bruce nor I will ever cross.

"For a second I thought that the Man of Steel had what it takes; it turns out he's just as sad and limp-dicked as Bat-fag. You know Supes, I've heard that opposites attract. Perhaps you and Batman have a budding romance? Ooh I do love a good harlequin romance novel! Something sweet and spicy with a lot of nudity. Oh, and decapitations. Nothing gets me going like the severed faces of my enemies."

He slammed his hands and face against the glass at the end of his diatribe. He licked the glass making moaning sounds and laughing. I could have disintegrated him then and there, but what kind of role model would I be then? And really, who wants to spare Bruce the trouble? His millionaire life has been too blessed.

Dick pounds his hand against the glass, causing Joker to fall backwards a foot or two, holding his nose.

"Oh my god! You broke my nose!" It's physically impossible for Dick to have broken Joker's nose through this kind of reinforced plexi-glass, but this doesn't stop Joker from putting up a fit. He holds his nose in his hands, speaks nasally. "That isn't nice at all!" He twists his hands a bit with a small popping sound, followed by a crunch. He flings his hands forward, and a spurt of blood covers the glass in front of us. He slams his face—and now broken nose—against the glass until there is a smearing of blood the size of his face. He backs off a bit, and begins to write: "F-U-C…"

This causes Dick to lose it. He steps close to the glass and yells at Joker, who is doing nothing but sneering and bleeding down his white, standard-issue scrubs.

"What the HELL did you give him!?" The Joker doesn't laugh. A smirk slides up the left side of his face, revealing half of his yellow teeth.

"A little taste of this." The Joker points to his head with his fingers in the motion of a gun, cocks the hammer, pulls the trigger. "Bang. Heh."

"If you ever get out of here, I'll be waiting for you," says Dick.

"Oh, we'll be meeting sooner than you think." As soon as the words come out of Joker's mouth, the lights flicker in Arkham, and screams erupt from all over the asylum. When the lights come back on, the Joker is sitting on his bunk. "Oops. False alarm. Do stop by again." And with that, he cackles and lies in his bunk facing away from us.

We walk halfway down the corridor, and Aaron Cash opens the door for us at the end of the cell-block.

"Did you get what you needed?" he asks.

"What do you think?" says Dick.

"Typical," says Cash.

Before we exit the asylum, Cash catches up to me.

"The Joker says he wants to see you alone. I dunno, maybe he'll tell you something valuable. Give you a lead or something." I doubted this greatly, but our situation has become desperate. We have to find out what happened to Bruce.

Cash takes me back inside the cell-block. The Joker doesn't even face me.

"What do you want, Joker?"

"Just one thing, precious Superman. I want to know how you've been feeling."

"Is this a joke?"

"I _never _joke about people I want dead."

"Then I'm sorry to report to you that I'm feeling fine. Better than ever really."

"Hmm. That's too bad. Take care of yourself, Krypto."

I walk away without letting him see the look on my face. The Joker gets to everybody, but if I've learned one thing from Bruce, it's to never let him have the satisfaction of knowing that he's scared the living hell out of you. I feel the blood push through my veins a little too fast, feel my muscles flex a little to much, feel gravity give way a little too much with each step. And I think about what the Joker said. I'm not feeling fine. I feel incredible.


	3. Chapter 3

**Author's Note: **

I can't tell you how appreciative I am of all the positive comments that I've been given. Sorry for the late update on this one, but I've been a bit busier this week. I really hope you enjoy this installment as the mystery begins to unfold piece by piece. Thanks for sticking with my story; I hope you all enjoy Superman and Batman as much as I'm enjoying writing for them.

Keep the comments coming, both positive and constructive.

I wish you the best. Enjoy.

I can't sleep. At home, I do the usual routine of sliding into bed, creaking the box springs, waking Lois up, feeling terrible about it, apologizing profusely, realizing she's asleep halfway through my apology, stumbling out of the room, stubbing my toe and breaking a piece of the doorframe, drinking a gallon of milk, and watching the late night news.

I have to rub my eyes three or four times to get them to focus, and even then, I can feel the heat emanating from them. It's as if the muscles are too tired to hold back the rays. This can't be good. I blink a few times, rubbing them again, until the feeling goes away.

Even with my eyes focused, I can hardly believe what flashes across the screen. "News from Gotham: Dr. Pamela Isley released today from Arkham Asylum for good behavior and contributions to neurotoxin research."

More work. I wonder if Dick has heard the news.

"We knew three days ago," he says on the phone.

"Why didn't you tell me?"

"We were hoping it wouldn't happen."

"Only hoping?"

"Let's just say that there are some people in Arkham who we thought we knew better."

"Contingency?"

"Tim's watching her as we speak."

"Good."

"Clark, we need to talk. About the rumors."

"I know."

"Get some sleep." I am caught off guard by Dick's good wishes. This situation is affecting all of us more than we realize.

"You too, sweetie," I say.

He lets out the smallest hint of a laugh before hanging up the phone. Bruce Jr.

***

My sleep the rest of the night is...restless. In the few minutes I manage to close my eyes--which are still on fire--I find that I cannot get the same face out of my head. _His_ face.

It's unnerving how much he affects you. Maybe that's why Bruce is so paranoid, so stone-cold. Joker is like a worm that eats away at your brain. He is equal parts fear, chaos, madness, and sanity. The scary thing about him is that if you listen to him long enough, he starts to make sense. And the worm grows.

I dream in red. Metropolis and Gotham are on the opposite side of a void, a hole in the world where the oceans, red and hot, are falling. The buildings and streets are crumbling, fracturing, and leaning towards the hole. Countless people are sliding down the asphalt, tearing their fingernails off in an attempt to save themselves.

And I am in the middle of the void.

I have Gotham in one hand, Metropolis in the other.

My muscles tear through the suit. My eyes explode towards the sky, tearing it in half.

I push the cities up an inch. My back fractures. I push them up another inch, and my arms tear in countless places. But I hold them, steady them.

And then he appears. On my left, skipping down the streets of Gotham, firing pistol rounds into survivors, the Joker cackles his way towards the void. When he reaches the edge he almost falls in, and after laughing and flailing his arms, comes to rest on his heels. He pauses to tell me a joke.

"A parishioner walks into confession, and tells the priest: 'I'm searching for God'. So the priest says, 'And where has your search led you?' The parishioner replies, 'Under the sink, above the refrigerator, in the closet. I've searched for Him everywhere.' The priest chuckles to himself, and finally says: 'My child, you will not find God in any of those places, though he certainly _could _be there. It's simple my dear: he lives in your heart.' So the woman says five hail marys, and goes home and shoots herself through the chest."

I ask him what it means. He says nothing, only loads his revolver with green bullets, aims, giggles to himself, and shoots a foot-wide hole in my chest. Gotham, Metropolis, and everything within sink into the hole, where laughter echoes in the darkness.

***

I wake up with the closest thing to a hangover I've ever had. I can barely stumble my way into the shower, where I throw up. Lois asks if I'm okay. I tell her I'm fine. She's at the door before I can wipe my mouth off.

"Fine? Since when does Superman puke his guts out?"

"Would you believe Kryptonite?"

"Actually, yes. I'm worried about you Clark. You've been so tired the past couple of nights."

"I'm fine. Just a little tired."

"And all people hurl when they're tired? If that's the case, then move over and let me blow some chunks." You'd think these words could never come out of someone this beautiful, but that's Lois's secret identity, right there on the surface. First she bats her eyes, then asks a few questions in that disarming voice, and before you know it you're telling her every last secret you've been hiding from everyone else, and she's out the door with a front page headline.

And she farts. She refused to until we were married, and most of the time I have to pretend I don't hear them. It's not fair really; she's actually quite delicate when it comes to flatulence. I start to laugh.

"What's funny, Clark?"

"Nothing hon. I love you."

"Well you're not going to work tomorrow."

"Why?"

"You've got a tanning appointment."

"Lois, I've got to…"

"Got to what? Write up that breaking story about the kindergarteners? Yeah Clark, The Planet will literally close while you're gone."

I don't think I like the tone of voice she's using, but when she's right, she's right.

***

I spend the rest of the day on top of the fortress, trying to absorb as much sun as possible. I have never felt run down like this before. I have always been pushed to my limits, past them even, but I have never had to split my time between two cities before, both of them so close to the brink.

Gotham has always teetered. It's like the city enjoys balancing on the edge between sanity and utter anihilation. Metropolis worries me more. Luthor has been very quiet lately, choosing the business side of LexCorp as a way of taking attention off his "other" plans. Maybe I'm just paranoid. Maybe Bruce is rubbing off on me.

"Maybe you're just paranoid. Maybe Bruce is rubbing off on you," says Lois over the phone. "How's the fortress?"

"Blindingly white and full of sun."

"Feeling better?"

"A little."

"That's not what I wanted to hear." I rarely say the things she wants to hear, but that's marriage I suppose.

"I just worry about him."

"Hon, Bruce will pull out of this."

"Not Bruce. Lex."

"Lex has been dormant for nearly a year."

"And that's what scares me."

"You're amazing."

"Yes, but why do _you_ think so?" She doesn't laugh.

"Because you can spend your nights, _all night long_, in Gotham, the scariest city other than Fallujah, and you're worried about Lex Luthor? The man you've beaten beyond recognition nearly one hundred times? The man who has been stripped of all dignity and power?"

"The man who has never, not once since I got to Metropolis, laid low for this long. He's planning something."

"Yes. And it probably violates some sort of business ethics in a terribly arrogant fashion, but last time I checked, you're not the Superman of Wall-Street. Get some more rest. I expect you home when I get home."

"You know I can't be."

"Can't, or don't want to?" She hangs up the phone. There is nowhere on infinite earths that I would rather be tonight.

Instead, I get Gotham.

***

"_Some_body has to be out there," says Dick.

"You're out there with Tim every night."

"Yes, and Huntress and Oracle are all on overtime as well. Hell, we've even thought of dunking Jean Paul Valley in a lazarus pit."

"That isn't funny."

"I know. It wasn't a joke. We're that desperate, and things on the streets haven't gotten any better. They're moving shipments in broad daylight."

"Who?"

"Who _isn't_, is the better question Kal."

"Do we need to get the League involved?"

"I don't think that's a good idea. Seeing Jon or Hal flying overhead isn't going to make them think twice. It'll only do one thing."

"What's that?"

"Confirm their suspicions that Batman is dead." I look over at Bruce. He's not dead, but he's never looked worse. The frost from the tank has crusted below each of his eyes, and the smirk on his face tells me that the cryogenics won't be able to hold off the toxin indefinitely.

"Dick, we have to find a cure."

"No, we have to find a Batman." I don't like the way he's looking at me. I know he's picturing me in the suit. I've heard Tim and Dick whispering about it. There's no way they don't know I can hear them. They have too much combined detective experience to make that kind of amateur mistake. "Don't tell me you haven't thought about it."

"I haven't thought about it."

"Bullshit, Clark! You're here every night anyway."

"But I'm not showing myself."

"True, but how long do you think it will be before the families and freaks piece it together? Every time they make a deal, a sonic boom the color of a rainbow flies by and all of a sudden they're tied to the ceiling? There aren't many people on earth who can do that, Kal. Only one that I can think of."

"I get the job done with minimal attention."

"Yes, but that's not the point. The point of him," Dick points to the cape and cowl, "is to _get_ attention. _Keep_ it. Without the fear factor, it's as powerless as Bruce."

"I can't..."

"We can talk about it later. But think about Metropolis. What happens when your own underbelly finds out about Superman splitting his time between Gotham and Metropolis? You think Lex doesn't know?"

"He's been dormant for over a year."

"We both know better than that. He's had good P.R. people clean him up. Rebuilt LexCorp. That's all. You don't think he's got some latent plans for you? Even _you're_ not that naive. I can't force you, short of a kryptonite ring, but it's something to consider. Gotham needs Batman."

Gotham needs Batman as much as this kid needs a spanking. I'm starting to realize why Bruce and Dick could never be in the same cave at the same time. Sharing the two seats in the Batmobile must have been suffocating. They're both so damned alike.

I try to hide the fact that my eyes are on fire. Bruce is the only man on the planet who has earned the right to speak to me like this. Dick sees the look on my face, backs off.

"Clark, I didn't mean to..."

"Stop."

"No really, I..."

"Dick, shut up." I point towards the monitors that cover Gotham's streets, the monitors that--ten minutes before--had displayed Tim's location within Gotham city. The indicator on the monitors that corresponded to Tim's present location had stopped moving.

"Yeah, Clark, that's Tim. Good observation."

"No, look. It stopped moving. It hasn't moved since I got here."

"You want to take the suit on a test run?"

"No thanks. My 'rainbow' one will serve just fine." I think Dick would appreciate my sarcasm, but he was already in the Batmobile before I could finish "rainbow."

***

So the smell of Gotham has been bugging Lois when I get home every night. When I slide in to bed, none too gracefully, she always complains about how I smell like sewer, smog, wet rats, or dead hobo. Yes, she actually says these things. How she has smelled a dead hobo? I have no idea. Let's just say that investigative journalism can be a bit more dirty than it's made out to be. Sure there are the dinners, awards, galas, and daily life making phone calls behind a desk. But there are also dumpsters, toothless criminals, prison cells reeking of urine, and blood; more than any journalist would like to admit. Lois looks great in stilettos, but she's just as likely to be caught digging in a junkyard in coveralls. That's my girl.

I know now why I smell like Gotham to her. It's these night flights. The smoke and smog is nearly unbearable. It sticks to me, so much so that I can barely see the Batmobile on the streets below without using x-ray vision. What concerns me more is that there are acute traces of lead in the smog, a known carcinogen, that makes my picture of the ground splotchy at best. Some things I would rather not know, but I guess that's the price of x-ray vision.

It's hard following the Batmobile, not because I can't keep up, but because in order to remain invisible, I have to fly at six to seven times the top speed that the car can achieve. This means a lot of circling, cutting back and forth through the night sky. I also get bored. I have more than once been tempted to fry a goose with the heat vision, then watch as someone finds KFC falling from the sky, but I can never bring myself to do it...boy scout and all.

Dick stops the car abruptly; I'm on the ground, next to the car, before the canopy slides open.

"That took forever."

"Ha ha. Not all of us are faster than a speeding bullet."

"Yes, but some of us are faster than a moped."

"You drive next time."

"No need to." I love catching Dick off guard, even if it's only once in awhile. He does the same thing that Bruce does: pretends to ignore me. He takes a look at a scanner in the Batmobile, then closes the canopy. When the canopy is closed, the armored shutters close on top of it to keep out intruders--well, most intruders. Although it wouldn't surprise me if the canopy had traces of lead, if not kryptonite in it. Bruce is unapologetically paranoid like that. I might be his closest friend, and he no more trusts me than a common street criminal. Maybe less. Of all the members of the League, I'm the one he's got the most notes on. I guess I should be grateful for this; if it comes down to it, Bruce may be the only one who could ever stop me.

"This is where the transmission stops," says Dick. He looks up at a derelict old building, maybe a brewery? It's hard to tell, but the faint smell of alcohol is still wafting down the block. We walk into the building. There was a chain and padlock on the door. I let Dick fumble with it with tools from his utility belt. When he looked up I was smiling, and then he realized why.

"Just once I'd like you to experience futility."

"If you've got a pound of green meteor rock, you could."

"I'll think about it."

The inside is definitely a brewery. Large tanks lie either on their sides or stand upright, but all of them are rusting. A quick scan of the room reveals Tim's belt in one of the brewing tanks.

"You already see it, don't you?"

"Yes, but you can play with your transponder if you want to."

"Just get the belt."

I burn a hole in the tank. Inside is his belt, and a blood-red rose. I grab his belt, and then pick up the rose. As soon as I touch the flower, thorns jut out, almost defensively, and prick my skin. I am more than a little startled. Bullets don't usually even leave a mark, so thorns? I drop the flower and a little red dust falls from the petals when it hits the floor. A small drop of blood leaks from my finger, and then the hole quickly closes.

"Everything okay?" Dick asks.

"I'm fine."

"What startled you?" He looks down at the rose.

"Nothing. Ivy's got Robin."


	4. Chapter 4

Author's Note:

Sorry for the delay on getting this done. I teach for a living, so this is a very busy time of year. This summer should be a great time for writing, and hopefully for The World's Finest as well. Thanks for your time and patience. Enjoy.

My relationship with S.T.A.R. labs is strained at best. For all the good they've done, it's hard to ignore the bad P.R., what with new monsters escaping periodically. I tell myself they should be allowed to remain open. After all, they cure disease and provide the world--and on occasion, myself--with valuable research and technology. I just have enough to worry about without this monster-of-the-week kind of crap.

I only mention this frustration because one of Ivy's larger plants--laced with kryptonite, no less--is sucking on my head. And judging by the force with which it is suckling my face, it must like the Kryptonian skin cells. For a being reliant on photosynthesis, I must be like PCP.

I can taste the familiar sting of green kryptonite in this plant's slobber. It makes my eyes itch. In the smaller doses, kryptonite affects me like human allergies. I get a bit sniffly, maybe get a nose bleed. In the stronger doses, well, it's like a heroin overdose. Or so I suppose.

It hurts like hell when kryptonite hits my system. First, the hairs on my neck stand up like listening to a soothing recording, or having a first kiss with Lana, her hand tickling the back of my neck. Second, I get pins and needles all over, like a dead leg, only it's my body. Then the pain starts. Many people think it's purely physical pain, and it is. It's like every cell in my body wants to explode, like my insides want to be outside. Then darkness. Everything about me, the vision, hearing, strength, all betrays me. I've never felt more blind, deaf, and heavy than when I'm near kryptonite. The worst part is that I enjoy being near it, in a sick way. It's actually quite beautiful, and it has a radiance about it that reminds me of home, of a place that I can never go.

But today, inside the mouth of Ivy's plant, I'm just irritated. For whatever reason, the kryptonite is just not affecting me in any of the aforementioned ways. I'm as surprised as anyone, especially in my current condition (what with the not sleeping, the scars, and just general physical damage). I can smell the green powder all around me, but I'm not impressed. So far, I can only think of four things. 1. My ears keep popping because of the plant sucking on my skull. Annoying. 2. She must have known we were coming, because this plant is _definitely_ getting kryptonite fertilizer. 3. I thought that all the kryptonite on earth had been thrown into the heart of the sun because, well, Bruce and I threw it there ourselves. 4.I want the hell out of this plant's mouth.

So I break it. It shrieks and Ivy trembles. Dick is on his knees, catching his breath. He's been punctured by one of her other plants, and the effects are looking nasty on a cellular level. Microbes all over his system, perhaps white blood cells, are being ruptured by small, thorny spores. He looks up at me in shock that the kryptonite in the plant hasn't crippled me. His nose is bleeding. He collapses.

Tim is bound to the wall by ivy (go figure) and has the stuff growing out of his collar, his arms, his legs. He looks up at me with foam dripping out of his mouth and then falls asleep as the ivy grows tighter around him.

Time to end this.

I clutch Ivy's throat. I can't tell if her eyes are bulging because she's shocked that I escaped the suck-plant, or because I squeezed her neck a little too hard. I smile and squeeze a bit harder.

"I would ask you what's wrong with Nightwing, but it looks like you're having trouble breathing." A small whistle comes from the bottom of her throat, followed by gurgling. "Fix it."

She closes her eyes and a small, blue plant with waxy leaves crawls towards Dick. It secretes a crystal clear solution into his ear, and his nose stops bleeding. He's still unconscious, but I guess I'll have to trust that she fixed him; if I squeeze any harder her head will pop like a zit. I float a couple feet higher in the air, and drop her to the ground.

"And Robin." She relaxes and the ivy retreats from his suit and into the surrounding foliage. "You'd better hope, for your sake, that they're healthy."

"I'm not the one that came crashing through the ceiling of private property."

"I thought you were reformed?"

"I thought you obeyed property laws."

"I'm going through some changes."

"So am I."

Four vines extend from the jungle, each one grabbing one of my limbs. They, too, are infused with green kryptonite. I snap them easily, grab Ivy by the throat again.

"I see," she says between coughs, "...I see that you're not affected by green kryptonite."

"It's murder on my sinuses." I feign a sneeze.

"Superman with no weakness? That would make you..."

"Safe."

"God."

The way she says it makes me, intrigued. There is a flash of red that takes to her complexion. Her eyes seem bright with it, her hair more vibrant. And her body. I find myself staring at her legs, her chest, her eyes.

"How are you doing this?" She smiles.

"Doing what, my Superman?" Two red vines extend from her hair. I tighten my grip around her throat, but for all I know I'm tickling her at this point. "That look on your face concerns me," she says. The red vines wrap around my throat, and I let them. The hairs on my neck stand up. My legs go numb. I let go of her throat and let the vines hold me. She runs her hands up and down my face.

"I've always wanted Batman," she tells me. "From the very first time he resisted me, I've wanted to own him, to hold him in my arms. And I've been close, smelled him, tasted him, controlled him. But then I realized something." She strokes my face with her fingers, kisses my chin below the lips. "He's only a man. But the first time I controlled _you_, that was something else entirely. You could say my relationship with my victims has become more...mutualistic. When I controlled you, my deity, it was intoxicating, sensual, orgasmic. I've been waiting to hold you again ever since. A woman's needs do go so unmet in Arkham."

She wraps her legs and arms around me. We float towards the glass skylight. She licks my neck.

"But I'm sorry, Superman. Occasionally we must sacrifice our needs," she kisses me, "our _desires_, for the greater good." Red thorns protrude from the vines around my neck, from her legs and arms wrapped around my body, from her face and neck. They puncture me everywhere. I can see everything, hear everything at once. I can feel the vibrations of the earth, feel the movement like a carousel. Three hundred miles away a father strikes his child. Thirty feet away a fruit fly hums and is eaten by a plant. My skin burns.

And so do my eyes.

For a moment, the Gotham night is lit in red, and then the fire stops. She kisses my earlobe, whispers: _"Arkham."_

My sleep is nothing but nightmares. I fly to Arkham Asylum, fully myself, and yet more. I have never flown this fast, this crisp, this streamlined. It's as if gravity can't hold me anymore, like I could fly straight through the earth, cutting to its core like a knife through butter. I tear through to Arkham's heart, ripping steel and stone. The guards shoot at me, and I doubt if they even know what they are shooting at. A red blur, but somehow, they know me. Something inside them, some latent survival instinct knows that something supernatural has come for them. Their bullets are like snowflakes, slow and small on the air. I grab them all and make the guards eat them. Their tongues burn and they scream and I can hear them all in pain on the outer walls, on the towers, in the courtyard. But I am here for the heart of Arkham, and the heart of Arkham is _laughter_.

When I get to the center, he is there. He is standing in a straitjacket with his head down. Around him are the bodies of the maximum security guards. They are all dead. Without seeing me, he begins to chuckle, softly at first. Then his torso shakes as the vibrations, the laughter, crawls its way out of him. His voice is tremulous and warm.

"Are you going to help me, or just stand there and scan me all day long?" In the back of my mind I scream at my body and beg myself to stop. I cannot. I tear the jacket off of him and stand ready. More disturbing is the way I feel when I'm next to him. It feels like being next to the sun. Maybe better. I could throw up.

When he lifts his head, I see that his eyes have the same red glow behind them. It would be undetectable to the human eye, but my eyes are about as non-human as they come. I always got compliments on their hue, bluer than the skies of paradise, but when they started lighting things on fire I stopped looking people directly in the eye. When they started seeing through solid objects, let's just say I made a few more trips past the girls' locker room.

But now I wish I _couldn't_ see what I'm seeing. The Joker's insides are glowing red, like his blood is luminescent. It's a stark contrast to the paleness of his skin. The red shows in his eyes and his veins.

"Still staring? Like what you see? I'm using a new foundation; it does wonders for my skin."

I try to move my body, but I can't. I manage to say: "What are you going to do to me?"

"_Do_ to you? Whatever would I do with you, you hunk of man? I don't think I could handle you, little boy scout. No, no, no. I don't want _anything_ from you. I just want you to join the party!" He pulls a red rock from his pants and shoves it into my mouth, holding the back of my head with his other hand. I fall to my knees. "Ever seen this, Supes? It's a rarity, even for you I'm sure. When I heard you wiped all the kryptonite off the planet, well I just _had_ to find something to make you giggle!" He shoves the rock further into my mouth. I gag. "But you're _still not laughing!!!" _

I shake violently. I grab the earth with both fists, and Arkham begins to fall, piece by piece. The tremors knock The Joker to the ground. He is still laughing. I keep my eyes closed until the heat burns them open. Everything is on fire. And he's still laughing. I hold on until Arkham is on the ground and in flames. I hold on until I can't be held anymore. I cannot hold back. I have to release this power. I explode into the sky, leaving flames behind me. The shock levels half the island which falls into the surrounding water. Inmates scatter for cover, some scared, some elated. I hover above Gotham and scream. Windows shatter, glass flies into the air, and the city bursts into flames. I watch for a moment, satisfied with my power. And then I remember who I am, what I mean. Ten seconds and I have saved everyone from my destruction. Thirty seconds and the flames are out. A minute later, Gotham is silent.

But he's still laughing.

I wake up on the same metal table on which Bruce had lain. When I sit up, Dick leaps in front of me wearing a kryptonite gauntlet. Bruce has been busy. I left him the only kryptonite left on Earth because he's the only one I trust to stop me. I wish he could've stopped me tonight.

"I'm glad we didn't have to stop you last night, Clark. Don't make me do it now." Dick's words are empty. I can hear the vibration in his voice. True fear. Dick has always been smug with me, like Bruce Jr. But he's never been afraid, or at least he's never let me see it. But now he can barely hide it. He holds the gauntlet up like a shield, letting the kryptonite radiate against my skin. It burns. Badly. And soon everything including my teeth hurt. My muscles lock and I fall back onto the table. Dick seems satisfied with the results and removes the gauntlet.

"What was that for?" Dick hands me a glass of water.

"You had quite a night last night."

"I had a nightmare."

"So did Gotham. It wears an 'S' on its chest and nearly destroyed the entire city."

"You mean that was real?"

"Sure it was. Where were you? Oh wait. You were above Gotham screaming like a banshee and lighting everything on fire."

"Arkham?"

"Gone."

"And the inmates?"

"All displaced citizens on the streets of Gotham."

"He planned this."

"Who?"

"Joker." I sit up on the table and rub my hands over my chest. There are microscopic lines where my suit has been torn.

"Your suit is torn because you flew faster last night than anyone, maybe any_thing_, has ever flown. So fast that the particulate matter, we're talking microscopic, scraped away small slivers of your suit. We had Flash track you for the first ten circles around the globe, but he couldn't keep up. Jon and Hal followed you until you reached Neptune, but you only turned and smiled and left a trail of red behind you. They lost sight of your trail past Pluto. Where the hell did you go last night?"

"I don't remember."

"I'm just glad you took to the stars. I honestly don't think we could've stopped you in the condition you were in."

"Did I hurt anyone?"

"No. For some reason you just blew up the city for kicks. Everyone who was affected, whether fire or falling glass, says the same thing: I was about to die, and then a hot red wind blew past harder than anything I've ever felt, and I was fine. There were 184 different microbursts in Gotham last night between 11:01 and 11:03. No one was injured."

I stand up off the table. I feel heavy, groggy. My eyes take a second to readjust to the darkness of the cave. I float a bit and stretch my arms. I look around, scan a few areas. I'm not surprised to find a lead-lined room in the cave. Bruce is entitled to his privacy, and even if he wasn't, he'd still manage to keep secrets. I let a little heat out of my eyes, and a bat in the darkness screeches and scuttles away. Bruce won't be happy to know that I branded one of his pets. I look at him in the cryo tank. In all the mess last night, I'd forgotten about Bruce's condition. I'd forgotten about everything.

"How's Tim?"

"Sleeping."

"What happened to Ivy?"

"She got away. Once you flew towards Arkham, it's like she had no interest in us." The pieces begin to come back to me. I remember Ivy whispering in my ear, remember the burning sensation that I had when her thorns pierced me. It was the same burning that I felt near The Joker.

"They tried to kill me."

"I don't think they tried to kill you, Clark."

"Then what?"

"I think they tried to free you."

"From what?"

"Your restraints. The things that make you _you_. Your control."

"Because Superman out of control..."

"...isn't Superman, Clark. It's Doomsday."

"I need to see Lois."

"What about Gotham?"

"I'll be back tonight." I walk past the cape and cowl of Batman. "Tonight we'll start the Arkham round up. Tonight we'll find Joker. Tonight, Batman goes on patrol."


	5. Chapter 5

**Author's Note:**

I've had a bit of downtime, so I've used it to update two more installments of the mystery of Bruce's condition. I hope the plot works out. I think it does, but I'm a little biased. Writing this has been a wonderful experience, and I'm so pleased that all of you are enjoying the voice and plot. Thanks for being so encouraging and constructive with your criticism and comments. Here's chapter 5.

"How did Scarecrow, Joker, _and _Ivy all get ahold of kryptonite? I thought you threw all of that into the heart of the sun!" Lois is not at all happy with recent developments. This morning she woke up and rolled over, hummed something in my ear, and I liked the sound of it. That is until she ran her hands over my back and found Ivy's puncture wounds that are still healing, then found the streaks on my chest from my flight to infinity and beyond. Most women wouldn't be too worried about a few bumps and bruises, but most women aren't married to a guy who's been shot in the eyeball with a revolver without blinking, a guy who can't get _normal_ haircuts because the scissors bend.

"That's an excellent question, Lois."

"Don't patronize me, Clark. God, you sound like Lex when you talk like that!" Ouch. I haven't _ever_ been compared to Lex Luthor, other than the times that Lex has framed me for something he's done behind the scenes.

"Do you think that maybe _Lex_ has something to do with this?"

"Don't be stupid. Lex hasn't been around for months, and besides, your ex is in charge of LexCorp for the meantime."

"I wouldn't put it past her, given recent events." It came to my attention not too long ago that Lana Lang, the girl of my adolescent dreams, has been hiding kryptonite on behalf of the interests of LexCorp. She had no intention of using it against me; she said it was purely for research and for the shareholders, but I don't buy it. Something in her has changed recently. Maybe it's me. I don't change, _can't _change. I suppose it's unfair to assume that no one else will either.

"Clark, I would love if Lana were the one behind this. But as much as I want your high school sweetheart to be responsible, she's not."

"How can you be sure? She did set off a kryptonite dirty bomb that nearly made my home planet uninhabitable."

"But you forced her to show her whole hand. That was her ace, and she still couldn't beat you. When the cards are on the table, Clark, I'm not sure _any_one can. You're not in their league, and I'm not sure if you're even playing the same game."

"I had nothing to do with that. Hiro saved the atmosphere, not me."

"Exactly."

"I don't get where you're going with this."

"You won Toy-boy's allegiance."

"I'm not sure; I think Power Girl's rack had more to do with that." She doesn't look pleased that I mentioned Power Girl's most obvious "power."

"Be serious for a minute, Smallville." I hate when she calls me that. "You, Superman, won Hiro's allegiance, not to mention the devotion of countless others. Possibly _billions_ of people. Look at how many times Lex has tried to kill you. In all those times, he's never once succeeded, and never once has LexCorp's value increased as a result. Killing Superman, or attempting, it's public relations suicide."

"Lex never cared much for P.R."

"Lex wasn't a great C.E.O. Lana is. If she cares at all about her company's future, as she claimed to, then she'll leave you alone." Lois holds up a flash drive and smiles.

"What did you do?"

"Nothing. Let's just say the headline: _Lana Lang: Dirty Kryptonite Bombshell_ won't reflect well on LexCorp or its shareholders."

Sometimes I love this woman too much.

Lana may not be behind the distribution of kryptonite, but I'm not convinced that LexCorp, or Lex, isn't, so I fly by the tower that overlooks Metropolis, the same way the Luthor mansion overlooked Smallville all those years ago. However briefly.

I scan the building's interior, but it's a patchwork of offices I can see and lead-lined walls. I believe the building's very architecture, the cryptic nature of it, is essentially Kryptonian, which would match Lex's love of the stars and his hatred of me. The building's design is a visual puzzle; it's nearly impossible to judge the depth, height, or to get a good idea of the floor plans of the nearly 150 floors. He did this to spite me, to prove that for all my power, his intellect is superior. Lex is a textbook sociopath.

"You won't find what you're looking for here." The voice is soft and familiar, and as of lately, chilling and alien. Metal shutters open to reveal her.

"Lana."

"Clark."

I should have expected awkward silence. I really don't know what to expect. My ex-girlfriend and first love tried to banish me from the earth.

"So you want to get a cup of coffee sometime?" She laughs.

"It's odd to hear those words coming out of the world's strongest man."

"You said no to me."

"You weren't the man of steel then. As I remember, you stuttered and maybe had a bit of spittle come out." She betrays a bit of a smile. "I don't have any more. What I did have went with the rest into the atmosphere."

"And if you did?"

"It would be against my shareholder's interests to reveal such information to an outsider." The way she says _outsider_ stings a little. I've never felt more at home than on Earth, but lately I've never felt more alien.

"Lana. I'm going to trust you on this one."

"I hope that brings you peace of mind. Please stop scanning my building." The shutters close. I _do _believe her. She didn't sell any kryptonite, but that doesn't mean she isn't still hiding something, or someone.

I fly back to The Planet, where Lois is talking to Perry on my behalf. I overhear their conversation. Well, I overhear lots of conversations: one about periods, several about weekend plans with various women, a couple about spouses or people _other_ than spouses, and one about squirrels. Must be Jimmy. But the one I _want _to overhear is Lois explaining to Perry why I haven't written a story in over a week, and without a single promising lead.

"He's working on something _big_, Perry, really big."

"I can't go on blind faith alone. Not even with my two best reporters. It's a tough profession we're in here. One day you're on top, the next, some young hotshot with a penchant for modifiers is sitting at your desk. I need to see something concrete from Clark, or he'll be covering parades and obituaries."

"Trust me Perry. Give him a week, and he'll have a Pulitzer."

"To match yours?"

"Don't be silly. I have two."

She always reminds him of that. He'd never get rid of her. I used to think he'd never get rid of me, either. But lately I haven't been able to get any writing done. I usually write at night, or in my head as I'm pummeling the latest of Lex's robots. What can I say? It's easy for me to get distracted when I'm not challenged.

Lois walks out of Perry's office in a fit.

"Well, _Superman_..." she whispers, "...I managed to keep you a job, at least for a little while longer."

"How did you manage that?" She bites her lip a little in that sexy way that makes me 1. aroused, and 2. suspicious.

"I need you to publish something."

"But I haven't _written_ anything."

"I know. But I have a stellar article that you could make some stylistic changes to, put your name on it." She holds up her flash drive.

"Lois, I can't."

"This is your job we're talking about. She recently tried to _kill_ you. What happened to the paranoia from this morning?"

"It's still there, buried and festering."

"Then dig it up and publish the article!"

"I can't do that to her, even if she betrayed me first." This does not make her happy. She moves her hair to the side and sighs. The common man would think he's won this fight, but nothing about our relationship, or Lois, is common.

"Then I suggest, Mr. Kent, that you find a keyboard and start typing." She leaves the flash drive next to my keyboard on purpose, and then walks away slowly, long enough for me to notice what she's wearing underneath. I have got to find a cure for Bruce; this is really starting to mess with my love life.

I would love to write an article for Perry. And secretly, there's nothing I would love more than to sell Lana out completely. It's a side of me I don't particularly like, a vengeful side that reminds me more of Batman than Superman, which is appropriate on a night like tonight.

"It feels a little small, particularly in the..."

"_Waist_ region, Master Kent?" I think I almost got Alfred to smile.

"Yes, Alfred, in the waist." Something most people don't know is that Alfred keeps Batman and Bruce Wayne stitched up and pristine. Maybe not pristine, per se, but definitely pieced together. Alfred loosens the waist of the Bat suit. Standing here, in the cave, wearing this, is haunting. I am wearing everything but the mask, and the similarities between Bruce and I are striking. We have the same hair color, the same eyes (mine are bluer) and the same jaw. For all intents and purposes, we could have been the same person, but for two distinct events: my parents finding me in that cornfield, and his leaving him forever in that alley.

"It's a little dark for you, Superman," says Tim. He's been up and about since I got here, seemingly unaffected by Ivy's ivy.

"Please Tim, my friends call me Clark."

"Wait. We're friends? Clark?" He sounds the name out a few times like a test drive. "Okay, Clark!"

"Make sure you don't call me that in front of anyone who's _not _ a friend." I say this before I realize I'm not talking to a kid. This is, in fact, the boy who figured out Bruce's secret identity without any professional training, the boy who Bruce has proclaimed the most gifted detective alive...other than himself, of course. "This doesn't feel right, Alfred."

"It doesn't _look_ right either," says Dick. "But we all have to be out there. We can't be a man down. As much as I hate to admit it, freaks like The Joker are smarter than we give them credit for. Without Batman, they'll only laugh at us."

"No one in Gotham will be laughing tonight." I pull on the gloves, the boots, the mask. I've never been one for masks, but the way this feels, I can kind of see what Bruce likes about it. "Quick Robin, to the Batmobile."

"Shut up," they say in unison.

I've always wanted to say that.

I don't, of course, need the Batmobile. Dick drives and Tim rides shotgun, to Tim's chagrin. They take the upper west side of Gotham, I take the lower east. I use a mixture of flight and speed to add to the Batman's mystique. Bruce can make it seem that he appears out of nowhere; I actually can.

Oswald Cobblepot is the first to go. When I appear in his penthouse bathroom without breaking any windows or making any noise, he is frightened. When I let my eyes glow a little in the darkest corner of the bathroom, I hear a few bubbles in the tub.

I drag him onto the floor where he flops, wet, pathetic, and naked.

"What right do you have to invade my privacy?"

"What right do you have to be out of Arkham?"

"As usual, Batman, you're a bit, shall we say, _slow_ on the uptake. If you haven't been patrolling the area, you might want to note that Arkaham is in the goddammed bay!"

"I thought Penguins liked water." I shove him face first back into the tub.

"This is assault, you lawless vigilante!"

"Report me." I could get used to this. I have to be careful not to get too carried away while impersonating Bruce. According to Dick, I have no room for error. The freaks have known him for too long, studied him, feared him. To slip up on any detail, however minute, would give away the ruse, although Bruce should really think about making his eyes glow red; it had a nice effect. I let him out of the tub, throw a towel in his face.

"I can't imagine what you'd want with me."

"You _are _the least of my worries." This comment bothers him. For a very long time, The Penguin has not been a viable enemy for Bruce. His tricks are old, outdated, and the other freaks think he's a joke. I'll play off this weakness. How very Bruce of me.

"That's not completely true, Batman. I may have valuable information that I could, well, trade for something."

"A beating?" I let the glimmer flash across my eyes again.

"Not exactly. Immunity."

"From the law? Fine." He considers my offer, strokes his slobbery chin with his deformed hands.

"The Joker is up to something. Big."

"I already knew that, too bad for you." I grab him by his ankle and pull him eye to eye with me. His hair is greasy even when it's wet, and it drips onto my boots.

"Please! Unhand me! I wasn't finished!" I drop him to the floor. "A new toxin. A blend of Scarecrow's toxin and Joker's laughing gas. It has some rather, _unsavory_ effects." I look deep into his eyes; his heart rate is off the charts. He's scared, but he's telling the truth. He also smells like fish.

"How do you know about the effects?"

"They tested it in Arkham. It was a part of Ivy's research."

"The research that got her released?"

"The same."

"How did she keep the different agents stable? Scarecrow's fear toxin causes hallucinations, but Joker's gas results in temporary insanity and eventual paralysis. How does one effect not overtake the other?"

"A bonding agent."

"_What _bonding agent?"

"I swear I don't know."

"Too bad for you." I grab him by the ankle and drag him to the roof of his penthouse. His aviary smells like shit. I drag him through some.

"Stop! You agreed to immunity!"

"From the law. Not from me. Why get the law involved? They always make things so...so...boring." I drop him off the edge of the building. I can hear his screams echo past floor after floor. He passes out just before the third. I catch him, of course. Wouldn't want to break Batman's only rule. Let's just say that Oswald will wake up face-first in a gutter, covered in sewer water, never happier to be alive.

I fly back to the cave, sticking a bit more to the shadows, which is easy in Gotham. Dick and Tim are staring at a holographic rendering of Bruce's DNA. I pull the mask back and rub my eyes. Over the past day I've felt run down again. I've felt so...

"You look like hell, Clark," says Dick. "Maybe you should get some sleep."

"Can't afford to."

"Metropolis is the city of gold, Mr. Ke-, I mean _Clark._ It hasn't been attacked in months," says Tim.

"I can't afford to be lulled to sleep in the down times."

"Take that costume off; you're starting to sound like Bruce," says Dick. Maybe they're right. I could use some sleep. I sit down in one of Bruce's chairs. All the furniture in the cave reminds me of a mad scientist's laboratory in some black and white movie. The backs of all the chairs are a little to high, the equipment a little to sleek. To many things buzzing, bubbling, and beeping. The cave is a strange mix of Bruce's nightmares and paranoia; imagine Count Dracula as a Bond villain. That's the cave. And yet it's amazingly quiet, even for someone with super hearing. It's nice and dark...

"CLARK!" I wake up to Dick and Tim screaming at me. Both of their masks are off, and it looks as if they've been up all night. I can't tell whether they noticed or not, but I was truly startled. Despite how tired they are (Dick's hair is matted on one side and Tim has some sort of text imprinted on his cheek) they can't hide their excitement.

"We may have found a cure for Bruce," says Dick.

"That's great."

"Yes, but it's not _perfect_," adds Tim.

"What does that mean?"

"Well, we haven't managed to synthesize the antidote yet, but we've figured out a huge piece of the puzzle." Tim rubs his eyes and continues. "As volatile as both toxins are, they're being held together, both respectively kept at bay, by a..."

"Bonding agent?"

"How did _you _know that?" asks Dick.

"I am the world's greatest detective. At least today." Dick doesn't laugh. "When I caught up with Cobblepot..."

"Who you let loose..."

"Who I scared the _piss_ out of, and then let loose. When I caught up with him, I managed to get some information from him. I used a few scare tactics on him."

"Bruce would be proud," says Tim.

"Regardless," says Dick, "we've figured out what the bonding agent is, but that's not the main question. The main question is where did it come from."

"What exactly is the bonding agent?" I ask. Tim looks down. Dick looks me straight in the eye.

"It's kryptonian, Clark. Red kryptonite."

"That's impossible."

"You need to ask yourself something, Superman. Who are you friends and enemies, _really_?" Dick is right: I need to figure out who my friends and enemies are. I neglect to tell either of them about the red kryptonite that The Joker used on me. Bruce never trusted anyone, and I can't afford to either. Tim will put it together eventually anyway, so I need a bit of a head start.

"That can wait. What about Bruce? Let's get him the antidote."

"There's another problem," says Tim. "Bruce doesn't _need_ the antidote. At least not yet."

"Are you kidding me? Have you looked at him recently?" His eyes, still open, have a yellow tint. His smile is purple. Despite being frozen, he looks eerily alive.

"He'll wake up on his own. That's how the toxin works. The idea, and I'm not an evil genius, so this is only a conjecture, but the idea is that a person is paralyzed by their greatest fears. Then the Joker toxin kicks in, and they realize that there is nothing to fear at all."

"That doesn't sound so bad."

"No, it doesn't. Not at first." Tim continued. "But imagine a person like Bruce without any fear whatsoever. Imagine a general population without fear, without inhibition. Do you know anyone without fear?"

I do. He is a mystery to everyone who's ever studied him, and some who've studied him have ended up a mystery like him: every bit as crazy and desperate. But that's the thing about the laughing man: he's not crazy. In his mind he's completely sane, and all the world, by contrast, is mad. And now he's figured out a way to make the world see things _his _way.

"What do we do?"

"We thaw him. Wait for him to wake up," says Dick. "We wait for him to wake up, and pray that the three of us are enough when he does."

He's right. When it all comes down to it, Bruce is the last person in the universe I'd want to fight, Darkseid included. I used to think he was just a man, but he's more than that. Hell, he's the only mortal to punch Darkseid in the face, let alone outwit him. A man like that is not a man I want to face in a fight. He's already dangerous; now, if Tim is correct, he'll be fearless.

He may be unstoppable.


End file.
